


Reasons Not To Die

by indigoat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Bisexual Remus Lupin, Developing Relationship, Emotional Conflict, F/M, Love in wartime, One Shot, POV Remus Lupin, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Wartime Romance, Wizard Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-28 22:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16731849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigoat/pseuds/indigoat
Summary: Remus Lupin learns how to love himself.





	Reasons Not To Die

**Author's Note:**

> When I started writing this it was literally just an excuse to write an elaborate description of Tonks, somehow it turned into a depressing little vignette about Lupin. The title comes from the title of the song "Reasons Not to Die" by Ryn Weaver. Hope you enjoy x

I.

He met her the day the Order of the Phoenix officially reconvened, witches and wizards stretched out comfortably in the enormous sitting room of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. His eyes kept straying back to her—bright pink hair standing out against faded emerald green wallpaper, scuffed black combat boots tapping constantly against the creaking hardwood floor. They were meeting in the musty sitting room of a man who’d spent thirteen years rotting in prison, the expressions everywhere were somber and drab, and she was the only one in the room that felt alive, like she could see beyond the battle plans of the present to the bright future beyond. He wanted, jealously, to see what she saw. 

They introduced themselves, and he learned her name.

 

II.

The more time he spent with her, the more he liked her. He found himself hoping they would be paired off together for missions, disappointed when they weren’t, elated when they were. Sometimes he let himself think she felt the same.

He asked her out for coffee the evening before one of their overnight missions, staking out the house of a known Death Eater. He told himself it wasn’t a date, it was caffeine, it was work. But it didn’t feel like work. And lying in the shrubbery beneath one of Moody’s invisibility cloaks, so close to her their sides touched, whispering as they watched, that didn’t feel like work either.

The next morning, bleary eyed and stiff, they Apparated to the stoop of Grimmauld Place. He opened the door for her, she tripped on the stupid troll leg like she always did, caught her balance and kicked it, grinning at him. “You reckon Sirius would mind if we chucked this fucking thing?”

The kitchen was empty when they walked in, dark. Remus pointed his wand at the fireplace and flames burst from the logs, fiery gold flickering on the stone. 

“Tea?” he asked Tonks, who had sat down at the table, yawning and scrubbing a hand through her pink hair, making it stand up awkwardly on end. He resisted the urge to reach out and push it back. 

“Yeah, thanks Remus.”

He poured boiling water into two chipped mugs, dipped the spoon into the tin of sugar by the stove. Pulled his sleeves over his hands to grip the mug handles, carried them over to the table and placed one in front of her. They drank their tea in silence, wrapped up in their own thoughts, listening to the fire crackle and burn.

Tonks set her mug on the table.

“Remus?”

“Mhm?”

“How’d you like to get dinner sometime?”

 

III.

He hadn’t planned on falling in love, not again. There had been Sirius, so many years ago, but then he spent thirteen years believing the man he’d shared a bed with had betrayed his best friends, had finally proven his lineage. Even after he discovered the truth, he knew they could never go back to how it had been. Some lost things can never be recovered. He thought that would be the end of it. No more.

But then there she was. And he couldn’t help but follow her. 

 

IV.

Her flat was small, dark, cosy—tiny kitchen with a bathroom off one wall, the stained sink covered in make-up products, half empty bottles of hair dye and an enchanted (he asked what all that was for, if she could change her appearance at will, and she said sometimes she wanted the action of changing herself with her hands). The kitchen turned into an open space that seemed to serve as entrance hall, study, and living room. There were traveling cloaks hanging from wooden hooks next to the door, shoes in messy piles, a desk covered in paperwork, most bearing the Ministry of Magic seal, a squashy maroon couch pushed into the corner beside a small table holding a wireless radio and an ever-present stack of empty mugs. Posters of wizarding bands waving or noodling on their guitars were tacked up beside static posters of old Muggle bands. On the left a beaded curtain had been hung from the ceiling, separating her bedroom from the main room. 

So different from the flats he rotated, living out of his suitcase, sleeping on a lumpy, tattered couch in an otherwise empty room. He didn’t know people could live like this.

Could take four walls and turn them into a home. 

 

V.

They were lying in bed together, Dora’s pink hair standing up on end as it did when she ran her fingers through it when frustrated, contemplative, distracted. He traced the outline of her neck, the clavicle that jutted out from under her skin, her small breasts, ribs moving rhythmically as she breathed. There was a small scar on her navel, from when she had tried to pierce it with a needle, and a silver orb just above it, when she’d given in and used magic. Bony hips, muscular arms and legs, sharp edged and straight lined, with tattoos circling around her ankles and shoulders and fingers, some stick and poke, that she’d done herself, others from the shop—leaves and flowers that shriveled and bloomed with the passing seasons, a dragon that flew in circles across her skin, beating inky wings. By now, he’d memorized her body—how couldn’t he have? He’d traced his hands and lips over every inch of her a hundred times over, traced his fingers lightly across the bones that crisscrossed her chest and throat, dug his nails into the flesh of her back as she touched him. Covered her with kisses, his lips on her throat, her breasts, the dips and curves of her hips. 

When he was a child, he had not hated his body after he’d been bit. Scars were just puckered flesh. It was only when he got older did he come to understand his scars were something else, something sinister. Something to hide under long sleeved jumpers, something to be kept out of sight always. The first few times they were together, he asked her if he could turn out the light, guide her hands. Couldn’t stand the thought of her seeing him, touching him where he felt broken—Greyback’s mark on him forever, his skin lined with gashes that came from his own hands. She was patient, never pushing him for more than he was ready for. She let him set up his own boundaries, get comfortable, set different ones. 

It was still a marvel to him that he could lay naked beside her and feel beautiful. The shame that had been with him for longer than he could remember disappeared in the way she looked at him, touched him, so tenderly and so lovingly it brought tears to his eyes. 

She burrowed against his chest, her hair tickling his nose. He rested his chin against the top of her head. Whispered into the dark. “You make me feel beautiful.”

“Remus,” she whispered back, “you’ve always been beautiful.”

 

VI.

He should have known it would be too good to last.

Dumbledore beckoned him over the summer, told him what he needed Remus to do, and the truth that he’d been avoiding for so long hit him like a bullet fired point blank to the chest. 

The morning he was due to arrive, he stepped out of his empty flat, shut the door behind him and turned the key. Apparated a few blocks from Tonks’ apartment building, braced himself as he walked the familiar path. He climbed up the steps and knocked on her door.

He could hear footsteps approaching, and the door swung open and she looked up at him, and he suddenly feared that he wouldn’t be able to get the words out. Suddenly feared that he would. 

“Remus—” she paused, studying his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Tonks, I… Dumbledore’s asked me to go underground, as a spy for the Order.”

He could sense her waiting for more. No use in trying to sugar coat it.

“We shouldn’t be together anymore. I wasn’t… I wasn’t thinking. I let myself get swept away but… I’m not good enough. Not for you.” His voice was steely, unemotional. “You deserve someone better… better than what I can give you…” He turned away, whether to look away from her smarting eyes or to hide his own from her, he wasn’t sure.

“You are good,” said Tonks furiously, he could feel the emotion in her throat. “And it’s you I want.”

“I can’t do that to you,” Remus said. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his frayed cloak and turned, started walking down the steps.

“So, what?” Tonks called after him. “You’re just going to leave? After everything, you’re just going to walk away?”

Remus turned and looked at her, tear streaked face, her hair fading to brown. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and then, before he could change his mind, he turned on the spot and stepped into the suffocating darkness.

 

VII.

Lying on the dirt floor of an underground cavern, Remus was overwhelmed with fury. He was angry at Dumbledore, angry at himself, angry at the world. Angry that Dumbledore needed someone to live amongst cruelty and filth, angry that he was the only one that could do it. Angry that he let himself get swept away with Dora and her love, that he let himself forget what he was. Angry that his mistake hurt not only him, but her, too. He sometimes imagined bringing Dora here, underground, dark, and cold, with hot greedy breath and the stench of unwashed bodies and blood omnipresent. “This is how I have to live,” he said to her in his head. “This is what I’m meant for. Why should I take you down with me?”

But he missed everything about her: listening to her complain about coworkers, her loud and off-key singing along to her wireless radio, how she curled up against his side in bed and now when he was alone it felt like something was missing. Their long conversations that kept them up through the night, moving from reminiscing over books they’d read as children to serious discussions about prejudice against Muggles, half-bloods, and werewolves within the community. The nights they spent sprawled across her bed, her lying across his chest, carefully poking ink into little designs on his inner arm, his wrist. He rubbed his fingers over the mark now, the stages of the moon moving across his wrist. She’d asked if it was okay, before starting, said it was a reminder that he was always good. That was the thing about her, she reserved judgement for nothing, no one. It wasn’t as if she put up with his disease, she genuinely didn’t think he was any different from anyone else. It was a blessing and a curse—how could he resist loving someone who didn’t think he was broken? But how could he stay with her, knowing that if he did, he would be pulling her into the same line of fire as him? 

 

VIII.

Dumbledore was dead, and despite Remus’s rage at him, he was the first person in the wizarding world to treat him like a normal person. The first person that looked past his affliction, that treated him as an equal. 

He was looking down at the face of Bill Weasley, but he was also looking down at himself, barely five years old, cursed forever. Molly was weeping, saying something through her tears about the wedding, how he was to be married, and Remus barely had the chance to mourn the loss of another normal, happy life before Fleur had straightened up furiously, bearing down on Molly.

“What do you mean, ‘’e was going to be married?’”

She snatched the ointment from Molly’s hands and bent towards Bill, her fingers caressing the slashes on his face. 

“You see?” He turned, saw Tonks glaring at him. “She doesn’t care he’s been bitten. She doesn’t care!”

He felt suddenly trapped, aware of how many people were around, not wanting to look them in the eye, not wanting to look at her. He stared hard at his shoes, forced the words to come out of his mouth evenly.

“I’ve told you, I’m no good for you… too poor, too dangerous…”

And then Molly was butting in, “…being ridiculous, Remus…”

“I am not,” he said steadily, though it took all his effort not to rage. Not to ask them to consider, just for one moment, how it felt to live every day of your life full of disgust at what you are. To be taught that you deserve nothing. To know that if you give in to what you want, you’ll be damning another along with you. 

Hagrid walked into the hospital wing and Remus moved away from the group, slipped out of the open doors and walked down the corridor. He slipped behind a door pretending to be solid wall, fell down to his knees on the cold stone floor and cried. 

 

IX.

She found him behind the door, sat down next to him. 

“I know you think I don’t understand,” she said gently, crossing her legs and fiddling with the untied lace of her boot. Looping it around and around her finger until the tip turned purple, unravel, repeat. And then, forcefully, “but I do. You think it’s selfish of you to do what you want, because—” 

“Because I’ll turn you into an outcast!”

“Yeah, because being an outcast is such an uncommon thing in my family,” she said sarcastically. “Remus, my mum was disowned because she married a muggle born. D’you honestly think she’d judge anyone I brought home on anything but their character?”

“It’s not just your family, Dora. It’s everyone else…”

“I don’t give a shit about anyone else,” she shook her head. “But it’s not just what you think you’ll do to me, is it? Or you would’ve listened when I said I didn’t care. It’s you… you honestly believe you don’t deserve to be happy.”

Her proclamation was met with silence, as Remus struggled to find words that could even begin to describe how he felt. 

“You’re right,” he said finally, hoarsely. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You’re right. You… you know I was bitten because my father offended Greyback.”

She nodded.

“It wasn’t a personal insult, what he said. He described all werewolves, every werewolf, ‘soulless, evil, deserving nothing but death’.”

Her hand found his arm, squeezed. 

“But Remus, he didn’t—”

“I know he didn’t,” he said. “But that’s what he felt about the others, the ones that weren’t me. What was stopping me, really, from being different? Nothing. I tried, Dora. I tried to believe I deserved a chance at being a student at a real school, and I almost killed another student there. I tried to believe I deserved young love and spent thirteen years thinking the boy I fell for murdered our friends. I tried to believe I deserved you and how lively and bright and loving you are, but—” his voice cracked, kept going. “I want to have a life with you. But everything—everything around me tells me I can’t.”

“You can,” Dora said fiercely. “But you have to believe you can. I want to love you, Remus.” She took her hand off his arm. “But you have to believe you deserve to be loved first.”

 

X.

Madam Pomfrey helped get him in touch with a therapist, and he started weekly sessions that drained him, the end of the hour came and he was sweating and shaking as if he’d run for hours. He traced his fingers over and over the ink Dora had pressed into his skin. He went out for a drink alone, to get used to his own company, his own thoughts. He repeated to himself, slow progress is still progress. And when he felt strong enough to see her, he Apparated onto the familiar street, tucked his hair back behind his ears, walked up the front steps.

And then he knocked on Dora’s door.


End file.
